In the care of a lady
by headless-nic
Summary: Ever wondered what Holmes has been up to during his hiatus? How he turned himself into Hendrik Sigerson & how he fared for the first couple of months after the Reichenbach-Incident? Well, a leopard cannot change its spots & Sherlock Holmes just cannot keep from solving mysteries. In this case he's helping a young man in his search for his sister he was supposed to meet in Florence.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

Of all the aspirations I had in life, travelling has never been one of them. I enjoyed my work, lived for it and in general not having anything to do never became me too well. I never did mind going wherever was necessary for my line of work, but still I preferred an at least fairly peaceful existence, not too far from the comfort of my own home, and so in this respect I was perhaps more like my brother than I generally would admit to anyone, least of all to him.

But not all decisions in life are one's own, and so in the desperation of the moment, I had failed to call out to my closest friend and left him instead with the burden of my death upon his shoulders. I still shudder at the thought of that dreadful abyss, the thundering water beneath me and the cold and merciless rocks I clung to, wet, slippery and steep. How I managed to get off the fearsome cliff and return to solid ground I still fail to understand, but I did, with every muscle in my body aching, including the one pounding in my chest.

Since then I had often wondered, if, perhaps, I might have had another option. Could I have made myself heard? Show I was still alive and well? Would Watson have heard me above the thundering water of the Reichenbach-Falls?

If only I knew the answer…

'If' is mostly a bitter word, but as much as I tried to keep this bitter reminder of what might and might not have been out of my mind, it often would not work. Often I pondered over what I could have done instead of deceiving my best friend into believing I lay at the bottom of the fall. I was lonely, even homesick and remorse I often felt, particularly in the weeks following the incident. When would I be able to return? Would I ever be able to do so?

The first few days went by like shadows and all I could think of, was to leave Switzerland as fast and as inconspicuous as possible for an English man with torn clothing and limited language skills. With the not quite unreasonable fear of being followed still I dragged my aching body up and down the mountains, avoiding the larger settlements and sticking to the chalets instead. Just once, short of the Italian border, I ventured into a small town to sort out my ragged clothing, spending half the money I had left on a fairly decent attire.

So with the feeling of guilt slowly arising, I crossed the border to Italy, taking the train from Milan to Florence, where I planned to stay for a few weeks, so I could sort out all the particulars regarding my near future. By the time I reached the Tuscan metropolis I needed to contact my brother urgently since I was running out money fast and a dead man can hardly cable his bank to accommodate him.

To say that his response was emotional would be an overstatement, but considering that he was the most stoic man ever to walk the earth, the news of my survival clearly moved him. Never had I received a warmer letter from him nor a sterner one. He had of course been already contacted by Watson and what I was now putting upon his shoulders was a heavy burden indeed. Still, it was one of the moments I really appreciated having Mycroft as a brother. He might not have been pleased by my actions and what they entailed for him, but he saw the reason behind them and never reproached me once. Instead he did, whatever was in his power to help me in my situation and so, over the course of three weeks I took on a new name, nationality and appearance, moving through the various hotels the city has to offer during this time and so, gradually I became Hendrik Sigerson, a Norwegian born diplomat travelling for the British government.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

One evening in late June, after almost two months in Italy, I found myself in a small café overlooking the lazily flowing Arno. It was a warm and beautiful evening and sitting on the sunny patio, for a moment I forgot what had recently happened and thoroughly enjoyed this moment of peace, smoking and drinking a cup of coffee.

I must have dozed off slightly because I had not seen the young man arrive and only when he spoke to me, was I aware of his presence.

"Scusi, Sir! Averi fuoco?" he asked, dictionary tucked into his pocket. I glanced around to see if he meant me and realised, I was the only other person there.

"Yes," I answered, handing him my packet of matches.

"Grazie."

"You are welcome."

"No need to speak English on my account, io parlare suo lingua per la quale."

"Sir, I am afraid, your Italian is far better than mine, so if you don't mind, I'd prefer to stick to English."

"You are an Englishman!" he cried out in surprise. I had to stop myself from nodding and instead gently shook my head.

"Actually, I am Norwegian, but my parents have moved to England when I was but a small boy. Hendrik Sigerson is the name."

"Pleasure. Henry Bertram." he held out his hand and I took it.

Sitting down opposite of me he ordered a cappuccino as well and lit his cigarette.

"So, how long have you been here, then?" he inquired curiously, but with an undertone of worry which was hard to miss.

"A few weeks," I answered evasively.

"Hm!" for a moment he only sat opposite of me, smoking, and then, with the arrival of his coffee, he seemed to have made a decision.

"I arrived three days ago. If you've been here a while, you did not happen to come across an English girl named Mary Bertram?"

"Your sister?"

He nodded. "Yes, my sister. So you did meet her?" he asked eagerly.

"I cannot recall that I did." I looked at the young man with sudden and instinctive interest.

He was not a tall man, 5'8 at most but muscular, obviously a sportsman. His face was sunburnt and covered in freckles as is quite common in people with red hair like his. He was clean-shaven and wore silver-framed glasses. I estimated his age at around twenty, rather a little under, than above. He was a neat fellow, his light linen suit flawless, aside from the bulge of his dictionary and an inconspicuous stain of ink on the inside of his left sleeve and on the side of his hand, indicating him as being left-handed. A small medallion, sporting an opened book and three crowns positioned around it, dangling from his watch chain, showing he was written in as a student at Oxford. I had to bite my lip not to blurt out with my deductions.

His expression had darkened with my answer and in an exasperated tone of voice, he remarked: "No-one seems to have seen her. We were due to meet here in Florence and now I end up looking for her whereabouts!"

"Do you think something has happened to her?" I enquired and could have kicked myself.

I got the feeling I was venturing into dangerous waters there, revealing too much about my person if I let myself be dragged into an investigation.

"Yes." he simply stated. "I tried the police, but they did not seem very interested. Said I should have a thorough look-around first myself, before bothering them."

Now he looked angry.

"So she arrived here before you? On her own?" I burst out, desperate to be of some use at last.

I was not meant to sit by idly when there were problems to be solved.

"Yes, they left England five weeks ago. She came here with a friend of hers from school and a teacher on an educational tour."

"And where are they?"

"That is the very thing, I do not know."

"Have you tried to contact the school?"

"You think I should do that?" he looked at me in amazement.

"I think you should do so straight away, Mr Bertram. They might know, where they are and why your sister did not meet you as promised. After all, there might be a very simple solution to the mystery."

For some reason, I did not believe in what I was saying myself. If it were this simple the school would have contacted the girls family and her brother would not be running through Florence now, searching for her. I looked at the youth and almost regretted giving him this much hope. But then again, it was what he had needed to hear and it was unlikely, we would ever meet again. He soon had finished his drink and went to the next post office to do as I had suggested. And I? I put the matter out of my mind wondering if I should stay any longer in this stunning city or whether it was time for me to move on.

Almost dreading my lonely room at the hotel I walked on for another hour, strolling first along the river and then along the ever busy streets. I was tempted to remedy my loneliness at least for this one night but refrained from it in the end. It had never been a habit of mine to pay for the tenderness of a woman and I was not about to start. A friendless home and an empty bed it would be once again for me.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Four days had passed and I was slowly preparing my leave, having decided to move on, when by chance I ran into Henry Bertram again in the early afternoon. He looked harassed and more worried than when I had first encountered him and it was an easy conclusion to draw, that the news he had received from his sister's school back in England, was not what he had hoped for.

"Mr Sigerson!" he cried out as he saw me sitting in yet another café. "God, I am so relieved to at least find someone familiar…"

If he thought me to be such he must have been lost indeed.

"Well then, man, what is the matter?" I enquired, knowing full well, that he had not yet found his sister.

"Still no-one knows where to find my sister, that is the matter! I did as you had suggested and found that the other girl, as well as the teacher, had returned to England a week early as the lass had been taken ill and had to be brought home."

"And your sister did not go with them?"

"No, she was left in the care of an English lady who stayed at the same hotel than the three others. Lady Emily Browning is her name. According to everyone, she was a very nice and reliable lady."

"Was?"

"She has also disappeared, Mr Sigerson. It is all so confusing. The lady had been staying there for eight months and one morning, according to the hotel staff, she is just gone – left the hotel without a word or sign. The valet told me, she apparently just left the money she was owing on the bedside table and that was the last anyone had ever heard of her."

"At which hotel did your sister and Lady Browning stay?"

"They stayed at the Visconti, one of the more private places. I stay there myself."

"Then let us go there." I paid my bill and got up to accompany him.

The Visconti had been one of the few hotels I had carefully avoided because they were known to cater mainly to English tourists and under no circumstances did I want to run into anyone by chance, who might recognise me. But since I had first arrived, I had changed my appearance quite considerably and hence was less worried to be found out now. And as on top of that, it was now a generally accepted truth, that Sherlock Holmes had died at the Reichenbach -Falls on May 4th of this year, I was considerably less worried than I had been a few weeks before that anybody might guess my true identity.

I had grown a full beard which made my chin look less prominent and my face more rounded than it actually was and I had spent a considerable amount of time in the sun to darken my complexion. My hair which in turn had gotten lighter in the sunlight being now of a much lighter brown, I kept fairly ruffled, instead of carefully combing it back to tame my but very slight natural curl and I usually wore either sunglasses or ordinary glasses to deter from my actual features even more and making my nose look less prominent as well.

Henry Bertram took up on the offer straight away, leading the way through the tangled streets of the old town. He certainly knew his way around by now. So much so, that I remarked on it.

"I have been on my feet from dawn until dusk the last few days. Asked literally everywhere and everyone, but to no avail. It seems as if no-one is even remotely interested in the fate of my sister. You are the exception. Thank you!" he said sincerely. "I do not know what I should tell my parents if I do not find Mary. They did not think it a good idea at all, said we are too young to travel on our own. But I told them that with twenty I am very well capable to look after my fifteen-year-old sister for two weeks and take care that no harm befalls her. And now..."

Young Henry Bertram looked on the brink of tears. I could relate to his predicament all too well. Silently we walked on.

We arrived at the Visconti five minutes later. It was a medium sized place, secluded, private but very elegant and providing everything a traveller from England might require – from an English breakfast to afternoon tea with scones, clotted cream and jam. As silly as I think this sentiment to be when travelling other countries, I have to admit, I, too, could not resist the temptation of some familiar food, uncertain when or if I would ever have the chance again to do so. And so Henry Bertram and I sat down in the parlour so I could gather more information from him, whilst enjoying a typical English afternoon tea.

"All right, Mr Bertram, I will try to help you find your sister. I cannot promise to be successful, but two sets of eyes might see more than one and two brains are always to be preferred. I am of course no detective, but as a diplomat, I may be able to gather information where you could not."

He nodded in acknowledgement while pretending to sip his tea.

"So, when did your sister first arrive in Florence?" I took a small notebook and a pencil out of my pocket to make notes, careful to not show the flyleaf as it clearly stated my real name. I would have to tear it out soon. - The last reminder of my former life.

"She and the others arrived here in the second week of May. I don't know the exact date, they left England on the 3rd, but I believe Mary said something about them stopping on the way down to visit a few places along the way."

"The receptionist might know," I remarked. "Do you know, when Lady Browning arrived?"

"No, only that she had been staying for eight months. So it must have been November or December last year."

"Alone?" I dug deeper.

Henry Bertram only shrugged his shoulders and I realised that it probably was better to ask the receptionist directly.

"But you do know when your sister's teacher and her friend left for England?"

"Yes, this I do know. They left on the 14th, about a week before I arrived, and reached Swindon, which is where the girl is from on June 17th."

"So you arrived on the 20th," I calculated.

He looked at me astonished: "How do you know that?"

"I can do maths, Mr Bertram. When we first met, you told me you had arrived three days before and since we met on the 23rd, you must have arrived on the 20th."

"Oh, of course."

I got up to find the receptionist. She was a pretty Italian girl, graceful and slender with fiery eyes and rosy lips, dark hair curling out of her bun and an attitude which made every person approaching her feel as if it was the greatest privilege to even just look at her. No wonder, Henry Bertram had not gotten anywhere. Any young man would have had difficulty remembering what it was, he had wanted from her. Bertram trailed behind me, and as soon as she appeared through the doorway of the office behind her desk, he looked like a rabbit trapped in front of a snake. Even I felt slightly intimidated and decidedly charmed at the same time.

"Bongiorno, Madonna." I greeted.

She looked me over and I could see to my surprise that she took quite an interest in my person.

"Good afternoon, Sir," she answered in almost flawless English. "How can I help you? Would you like to take a room?"

"Well, you could help me very much, I think. But with information, not a room."

Her face fell and her eyes narrowed. Then she registered Bertram lingering around somewhere behind me.

"Ah, you are with him?" she nodded in his direction and a small smile played around her pretty mouth. "I'll help."

She came around the counter, leaving the hall boy to look after her post.

"Let's go to the library, it is usually empty this time of day."

It was empty. Library also was a slight overstatement. The whole room contained perhaps fifty books if even that. I spotted a few volumes of Dickens alongside 'Jane Eyre', The 'Mayor of Casterbridge' and a compendium of Shakespeare's works, as well as some works on Florence, Italian art, Italian fairy tales and Roman legends. The obligatory bible was there alongside some other religious works. On the coffee table, I spotted a small paperback volume called theatrically 'The path God destined for mankind' - alongside a well-used copy of the Strand-Magazine proclaiming the latest Adventure of, of course, Sherlock Holmes. Just what I needed! Our young host saw the former and with a face of annoyance, she pushed it underneath the magazine. It was dated from five years back. No wonder it looked this battered.

"You are from the police?" she asked interestedly.

I shook my head. "No, I am only an acquaintance of Mr Bertram's who would like to help him find his sister."

"Ah, that is very good of you. What do you want to know then?" she smiled, licking her lips in a most appealing manner.

"What day was it exactly, that Lady Browning and Mary Bertram left the hotel?"

"Sir, it must be the 18th – a Friday it was." I wrote it down and counted back. Yes, a Friday it had been.

"But that is the thing, Sir," the woman continued, "we are not entirely sure. Friday was the day, we found the room empty, but she was a private person and she had asked not to be disturbed, so we did not. - But that was already on the 16th!"

"And Miss Bertram?"

"She went out again on Wednesday, said she wanted to post a letter and visit the Uffizi again afterwards. I thought it odd for a young girl to roam around without anyone accompanying her, but perhaps she was meeting up with someone, or the lady would join her shortly afterwards. If she did, I did not see her leave. Anyway, she had been here for a few weeks and knew her way around fairly well. At least she would not get lost."

"Had she gone out alone before?"

"No, not to my knowledge."

"Did you see her return?"

"I did see her return. I am not quite sure, but I think she was with a man…"

"What?!" Bertram almost shouted.

The young receptionist was not deterred, but proceeded calmly: "I just said, that I thought, I saw her in the company of a man, or rather a man following her, thinking about it."

"Can you describe him?" I asked calmly even though I was just as much alarmed as my young companion.

"No, only that he was not too tall, in height something between the two of you, rather lean than burly and black haired, I could see that from his beard, because his head was covered and his face was shadowed by his broad-rimmed hat, his clothes I cannot remember, but I think they were rather ordinary. But she seemed intimidated by him somehow."

"How so?"

"Oh, it is just a feeling. Do you not know that? When there is something not right? When something is just – not… Well, just not as it should be!" she looked at me with defiant eyes and a pout on her beautiful lips.

"I know what you mean, Madonna."

"Lucia is the name."

"So, Lucia, you said Mary Bertram returned looking intimidated by a man who was either with her or just happened to be on the road by coincidence?"

"Yes."

"How do you know it was him, she was intimidated by?"

"I told you, I just know it."

"Aha…"

"No, wait, I know why!" she cried out. "She arrived at the hotel smiling I could see her through the open front door and just before she came in, the man, walking behind her said something. She did not turn around, but her smile faded on her face and she looked as if she had seen a ghost. She was always very polite, your sister, but that time she did not even acknowledge me, she just rushed past the reception and almost ran upstairs. It was the last time I saw her. A moment later we received the instructions to not disturb them till told otherwise."

"So the two women might have left anytime between then and said Friday morning when you discovered, they were gone?"

The answer was a grave and thoughtful nod.

"Why did you go up to their rooms on Friday, since they asked to not be disturbed?" I continued my inquiry.

"Because there was a carriage which had been ordered by the lady. She went out every Friday afternoon to meet up with some other ladies to play a game of Bridge and take their tea at the Hotel Medina. We simply assumed, that her order regarding not to be disturbed excluded informing her that her carriage was now waiting for her."

"And how did you get to the conclusion, she had left the hotel? There might have been the simple possibility, that she had gone out for the day."

"Well, almost all the personal items had gone. The drawers were empty, so were the closets. None of the girl's luggage was left behind, and only…"

"Why did you not tell me all of these things?" Henry Bertram suddenly interrupted, hurt in his voice.

To say I was annoyed, would be the polite way of saying, I was extremely put out by his accusatory remark towards the young woman.

"You did not ask me," she said simply, looking him straight in the eyes.

"But you knew I was looking for my sister..." he insisted.

"Yes, I did, and I would have done everything to help you, but how was I supposed to know what you needed to know from me in order to find her?" to my great relief she did not take it as an accusation.

It would have been hard work to get her to co-operate any further if she had.

Instead, she carried on: "So how could I help, if I did not know how? Now I do know and I help. This gentleman is asking the questions I can answer and so I will."

Now she beamed at me, an eyebrow raised in challenge. If I did not know it any better I would have thought she was flirting with me.

"Can we take a look at the rooms Lady Browning had rented?"

"Yes, actually they are still rented out to her. She paid us enough money in advance to reserve them for her for another two months, till then they are maintained and cleaned once every week. Apart from that, we are not quite sure, what to do with the items that were left behind."

"She did leave things in her room?" I was baffled. "But you said…"

"I said almost everything had been packed up and removed, and only a very few items were still left there, but they are also packed up and ready to be carried out of the room."

"So there is hope, they will return, to get their things, after all!" Henry Bertram cried out, sounding relieved.

A relief I could not share. There was decidedly more to this and it did not bode well.

"So what was left?" I enquired instead, an uncomfortable feeling of dread creeping up on me.

"Only large suitcase and some books bound together with a belt. She read a lot. Never went out much, really. She usually stayed away from the other tourists as well, Miss Bertram, her friend and teacher were the exceptions. - Now if you would just follow me…"

She got up and led the way up a wide staircase and into a long hallway with doors leading off it on both sides. - And a second set of stairs on the other end of the corridor next to the room the ladies had been staying in.

I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach or even a bit lower. I felt sick. 'Yes, Lucia, I know what intuition is…' I thought to myself as we walked along the stone tiled floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The hotel was an airy and light flooded place and flowers adorned every little side table along the corridor. The lilies smelled sweet and strong, but there was something else. Something that only someone would recognise for what it was when he expected it. And I did. A sickly sweet odour quite different from the flowers and the closer we got to Lady Browning's suite of rooms.

'Please, no! Please, no! Not his sister...' I chanted in my mind.

"I think, Mr Bertram, you should wait outside in the corridor. Perhaps the two of you could wait, while I take a look around the room."

"Sorry, Sir, but I cannot let you do that. I will have to be present. After all, it is still rented out, Sir." Lucia insisted and Bertram nodded eagerly.

He felt so close to solving the puzzle of where his sister was, that nothing would keep him out of this room.

I braced myself. As the young receptionist unlocked and opened the door the sickly sweet smell intensified and I could almost taste it at the back of my mouth. It was warm and sticky inside the room, as all the windows were closed tightly. A single fly buzzed around lazily.

"What is this stench?" Bertram asked disgusted, holding his handkerchief in front of his nose, which of course was completely pointless. The smell of a decaying body permeated pretty much everything.

"I don't know, we never had any problems with blocked drains," Lucia answered and resolutely went over to the window to open it.

The fresh air did not help much but within a few moments, the number of flies had multiplied several times over, an increasingly aggressive buzzing filling the overall silence of the place as the rooms led out to the back of the house, overlooking a small but well-kept backyard.

Slowly I made my way over to the suitcase in the corner next to the bathroom door. The stench became more bearable as my nose got used to it. The case stood on its side and a red liquid seeped out and onto the carpet.

"Bertram, help me lay it down, so we can open it!" I ordered. He had insisted on coming, now he needed to pay for his insistence.

"Great Scot! The smell comes out of this trunk!" he gave me a shaking hand as he was close to losing his stomach contents.

"What is this?!" he pointed at the puddle of putrid liquid.

"Putrefying body fluids," I replied calmly.

There was no point in sugar coating the obvious. I could see, Henry Bertram had already drawn his own conclusions. His face was as white as a sheet, making his red hair stand out like flames and his freckles like flecks of mud, his whole body was shaking as he grabbed my shoulder for support. The girl Lucia had covered her mouth in horror also, her large dark eyes wide with disbelief.

"I think you might want to call the police, Lucia. - And close the door," I suggested.

She wheeled around on her heels, slammed the door shut and ran down the hallway her footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.

"Are you sure, you want to be present when I open this?" I asked Bertram.

"If it is my sister, I need to know. And I want to see her. See her sweet little face for the last time."

A tear ran down his face and I could not bring it over me to tell him, that it was very unlikely that after two weeks decomposing in this trunk any beauty was left, no matter how pretty she might have been in life.

I unlocked the trunk with the help of my penknife and flipped back the lid. The body was tightly wrapped in some oilskin sheets and only the outline of it could be made out underneath it. This must have also been the reason, why the smell of death had been so very faint. I loosened the sheet and pulled it back carefully. A lock of blond hair appeared. I could hear the young man behind me gasp. I glanced over my shoulder to see him crying like a little child.

"Oh, Bertram, I am so sorry..." I stammered unsure if what to do next.

"No, no, it's not that!" he sobbed. "It's just, I am so relieved it is not my sister. It's not Mary! She's got red hair, like me." he began laughing.

One of these disturbing laughs people break out in when they are under a great amount of stress.

"It's not your sister?!"

The relief I felt was immense.

I uncovered more of the dead woman, who was bundled up in her makeshift coffin in a foetal position. Her face was unrecognisable as her skin looked a bluish black, her tongue stuck out of her mouth like a horrible balloon, bloated from putrid gas. Her eyes also bulged out of their sockets, the eyelids so swollen, they looked like burn blisters ready to burst. Her chin was covered in a slight mould from the inner fluids oozing out of her mouth and nose. Behind me, I heard a thud as my companion hit the ground. Relief had not saved him from the shock of seeing a decaying body up close. I dragged him out of the room and just when I had propped him up against the opposite wall of the hall, Lucia came back together with the police.

"Per di qua!" Lucia guided them.

"Cosa è successo?" one of the men asked us.

"Questo è inglese." the receptionist informed them.

"Ah, andare! What has happened?" his English was heavily accented but understandable and decidedly better than my Italian.

I began to explain what we had learned so far while trying to have Bertram take a sip of brandy out of my hip flask but to no avail.

"This young man has been searching for his sister, who had stayed here at this hotel, as does he by the way. She was left behind by her teacher and friend to be looked after by an English woman named Lady Emily Browning and due to meet with her brother," I consulted my notebook, "six days later. But when he arrived he found his sister gone, together with Lady Browning, who had left enough money to rent the room for another two months, as well as a suitcase and a bundle of books. After having opened it, I do think, that at least Lady Browning never left the hotel."

"Is she still in there?" the policeman asked.

"I doubt she got up and wandered off while we have been talking here," I remarked dryly.

"I mean, was she removed by now, or is she still in the room."

"She is still in the room. We have only just found her. You might want to order a coroner."

The man nodded and turned to his inferior: "Giovanni, chiamare unire dottore, per favore. Avanti!"

The younger policeman stood straight saluted and left to fulfil his order.

"Oh, and Lucia, you might want to take care, that no guest is coming up here right now," I added.

She nodded and went downstairs again, to make sure no-one stumbled upon our horrible discovery, taking a pitiful look at my young companion.

"Show me the body!" the English speaking policeman ordered.

I led him into the room which now was full of flies, swirling through the air.

"Mamma Mia!" he cried out. "Terribile! Ecco terribile!"

While he slowly calmed down, I had bent down once more to unwrap the rest of the body. Lady Emily was dressed in a, now very discoloured, almost see through chemise and petticoat as well as in her tightly laced corset. Her hair was braided, but some strands had been torn out of the braid and now curled over her left shoulder. Around her neck, almost indistinguishable in the folds of mouldy bloated tissue and peeling off skin, was a thin ribbon, the end of it sticking out from underneath the loose curl of hair which had told us, she was not Mary Bertram. I only just refrained from prying it loose, remembering I was now Hendrik Sigerson, a travelling diplomat and not Sherlock Holmes, the well-known detective.

"Have you seen something like this before?" the Italian official asked curiously.

"Like this? No. But similar. Do you mind, if I have a look around the room?"

"No, go on. Whatever you think you might find. Looks as if it was cleaned thoroughly."

'Yes, whatever I may find. Hopefully not another body...', I thought to myself.

I began in the left-hand corner closest to the entrance door, which opened onto the corridor and then worked my way round the room. The coroner took his time, but looking at the clock I was venturing a guess that he was sitting down for his dinner at this very moment.

The main room was furnished sparsely, but cosy. A solid four poster took up a considerable amount of space, its cream coloured curtains were neatly tied together and the throw of the same material and colour was impeccable. Next to the bed were two bedside tables on the left one lay the books, Lucia had mentioned. They here a colourful array of novels, most of them anything but classy, rather the kind of stuff, normally read by young maids in service and on occasion the odd lecherous man needing to release a certain tension. At the foot end of the bed stood a comfortable looking rècamière, packed with various cushions of all shapes and sizes all of which were neatly fluffed up. There were two large windows that went down to the floor, with a bannister in front of them. The muslin curtains were now flowing in the slight early evening air. In between the two windows sat two armchairs and a small table, obviously serving as a desk, an inkwell, pen and stack of empty sheets of paper on top of it, next to an empty vase. To the immediate right of the door, was a small vanity, blocking the sight of the suitcase and its grizzly contents from direct view through the open door. Behind said trunk was the door leading off to the bathroom, about four yards left of it, was another door, presumably leading to an annexe or dressing room. Between these two doors was a tiny fireplace with a dainty clock sitting on its mantelpiece. It had obviously stopped a while ago and was now permanently showing 3:40 o'clock. Behind it was a small Murano glass mirror, most magnificently worked. its frame showing a flowering branch with a bird sitting on it all delicately worked from glass. The floor was covered with a red and brown floral patterned carpet, the walls dressed in brown and cream coloured striped wallpaper. Everything was exactly as one would expect of such an abode, notwithstanding the suitcase and its grizzly contends of course.

I went through the main room for about half an hour, before the coroner arrived. He was a portly man, who reminded me remotely of my brother as he seemed to possess the same stoic kind of disposition. I also had been right in my assumption, he had been eating his dinner when he was called. The slight trace of fresh gravy on his cravat bore testimony to it.

He acknowledged me and then bend over the trunk and body with obvious interest and professionalism, all the while talking to the older policeman in animated Italian.

I was just busy, looking through the stack of paper on the table when something caught my eye. The sheet on the top looked slightly different from the others. It looked as if it had gotten wet and was slightly wrinkled as if some drops of water had dripped onto it. I held it against the light and saw absolutely nothing though. Putting it aside I decided to take care of it later.

"You and your friend are English, are they not?" the doctor asked all of a sudden while getting back on his feet, with surprising agility.

"Norwegian, but working for the English government. But, he is English through and through."

I nodded towards the door to indicate I meant Henry Bertram. He was gone.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Oh, him I sent off to bed on my way in. Gave him a little laudanum, so he can rest a while. Looked as if he was about to drop out of his suit at any moment." the doctor chuckled.

"I tried to give him some brandy, but he would not or could not take in any." I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, this is not a pretty sight. How are you holding up? It's not something one sees every day. And this smell!" he waved his hand theatrically through the air.

"I have seen worse. I am fine, just worried. My friend is searching for his sister, who has been staying with this woman there." I pointed at the corpse.

"And now she is missing?" the doctor asked.

"Then could she not be the murderess?" the policeman piped up.

I closed my eyes in exasperation. This was exactly what I had been worried about. And I have to admit, the thought had crossed my mind also. But how likely was it? Was a girl of fifteen capable of killing a woman, wrapping her in oil sheets and squeezing her into a trunk? Perhaps. - If she was strong and used to hard work. Or perhaps in the heat of the moment. But all my instincts told me, it was not so. Mary Bertram had nothing to do with her hostesses death. The scenario in the room greatly smacked of revenge - a revenge that had been anticipated as well, thinking of it.

"I doubt it." I thus replied. "I saw a ribbon around her neck earlier, is it a choker or something else?"

The doctor looked thoughtful.

"I do not know. I saw the ribbon, but have not taken a closer look yet."

"May I?" I asked permission.

"Sure." he grinned, surprised at my willingness to touch the dead woman.

If only he knew how often I had been present at an autopsy…

So I finally bent down, to pry loose the ribbon around the woman's neck. Admittedly it was something to get used to. Decaying flesh has its very own distinct feel to it and honestly, it is a disgusting one. It feels spongy, while the skin and flesh are kind of moving, as the gases and liquids within work on deteriorating the soft tissue further - and it also feels oddly warm and hence completely different to what most people expect a dead body to be - cold and lifeless. It was not a choker, however, – well, technically it was since it had been used to choke a woman to death - but it was not an adornment, but turned out to be her silk corset laces. I told the doctor.

"I have always been against tight lacing..." the doctor remarked dryly.

He was greeted with two sets of raised eyebrows, mine and the official detectives. But I could see the decided irony of it. The lady was obviously very tightly laced into her corset, the waist so tiny that I could wrap my hands around it if I had wanted to do so. In life, it must have hindered her breathing considerably, and now the same laces had accomplished, that she was not breathing anymore at all.

"Anything else, you would like to see?" the doctor asked me.

I shook my head and he called in four men carrying a stretcher. The trunk and body were carefully placed onto it and then covered by a sheet and finally brought out of the hotel.

"Did your search get you anywhere?" the policeman asked, looking as if he thought the business closed.

"I only found this. Looks as if it has gotten wet."

"There is nothing on there. Someone must have spilt some water. Looks like someone put a glass of water on top of it that then has spilt some of its contents onto it. My whole desk is covered in papers that look just like this one. Anything else?" the detective remarked almost impatiently.

"No, but I would like to look around the bathroom and the dressing room as well," I stated while folding up the sheet of paper and putting it into my pocket.

The man looked exasperated, but gave me one more hour, telling me he would be found in the bar if I needed him.

Bathroom and dressing room were furnished just as frugal as the main room, but still comfortable.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

The bathroom was devoid of anything apart from what was built into it and that was but little – a sink, a bathtub and a water closet, which was tucked away in a niche, separated to the rest of the room by a small door. I could leave after only a few minutes and without any clues. There was no way, that anything was hidden away in here and since it had been cleaned twice, and on top of that well since the ladies had gone missing, all possible traces were gone by now.

The small dressing room looked more promising. It had a spare bed in it, tucked away in the far corner, and almost blocked from view by a wooden folding screen. There were two closets and a chest of drawers, a chair, a valet stand and another vanity which was standing between two more muslin covered windows, making this a very light-flooded room. One of the shutters, the one closest to the bed, was closed, which I thought odd, but it just seemed to be a coincidence. I looked through every drawer, just to find, that all of them were completely empty. This room was just as barren of information, then the bathroom and main room had been. But, as I wanted to walk out of the small chamber, something caught my eye. There, in the mirror of the vanity, which was at an upward angle, I could clearly see a brown leather-bound volume tucked away between the shutter and the outside wall, hidden from view by the curtain, and looking even more inconspicuous by the dark background provided by the closed shutter. If one was looking from any other position it was impossible to see unless one was opening the shutter to have it fall down, that is. Which was exactly what I did. I caught the book and in my hands, I now held a diary. Lady Browning's diary, to be more precise.

I flipped through the pages of it and found the last entry to be written on the 16th of June. The day, the girl appeared to be intimidated by a stranger and the day, on which Lady Browning had told the staff, that until further notice, she did not want to be disturbed.

Her last words read:

To whoever may read this,

in all likeliness, I will not be there any-more. I will have been murdered by the man who has made my life a living hell for the past two years. But I am not a victim, don't mistake me there. But now, at last, I presume it is time to come clean and confess to all I have done.

I was born Ann Nash on October 22nd, 1849, daughter of a prostitute; father unknown.- Of course. I could be the daughter of a lord even. Wouldn't that be something?

I was neither wanted nor loved, but I was pretty and clever and at the age of twelve, my virginity was sold off and I followed in my mother's footsteps, loving and at the same time hating every moment of it. Some men just never seem to get the hang of such a simple act as taking a woman properly, while others made me scream out in delight.

In 1870 I thought Fortune to be on my side when I married a man named Thomas Smith, who at the time, was twice my age. A petty thief and general thug, he was - but for me he was the knight in shining armour, witty, charming, seemingly caring and most of all an ardent and very apt lover. But not for long. Shortly after our marriage, he began beating me up, kicking me and threatening me to find me, wherever I thought of fleeing. I did not budge for many years. But then, he decided to rob the Central City Bank together with two friends of his. - That was in '72. They managed to get hold of almost 10.000 Pounds Sterling, a third of which was hidden beneath the stone floor of our small and shabby hovel. The problem was, that they got greedy and went on to rob yet another bank, proclaiming, that afterwards, all of us would have enough money, to start all over again in America.

I had other plans though. I had enough of being beaten up and trampled on and kicked about and so I went to the police, telling them about their plans and they were arrested duly. I testified against them, making sure, they got locked away. My husband died of consumption after two years in prison and I was a free woman, with a considerable amount of money. The first few years I spent my money carefully, so I would not arouse suspicion. The police somehow never got the idea, I might know, where it was hidden. Silly buggers!

It was, what I had been hoping for all my life – to be a free and wealthy woman. I wanted to travel, to see things and so eventually I became Mrs Greene. I lived my life to the fullest and had many affairs. I still loved a hard man between my thighs. Some habits never change, it seems. Eventually, I found out first hand, that even if you were wealthy, you could still run out of money. So after a while, when the men I served as mistress tried to get rid of me, I got the better of them. After all, I had nothing to lose and some of my lovers, on the other hand, a whole lot. I knew I played a dangerous game, but I had been used so often and so badly, I thought it was time for a little payback.

In 1887 the two remaining members of my late husband's gang were released from prison. One a cripple from an accident in the quarries, they had been forced to work in, broken and in a pitiable state – but the other, the youngest, set on revenge.

It took him some time to find me, but when he did, there was no escaping him. In the end, I shot him. He is buried in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere in southern France.

One enemy after all I had gotten rid of. But there was another. A man who was desperately jealous. He was a young man, fiery and passionate, as most Spaniards are. How I had loved this fire! A fire his wife had not been able to satisfy all alone. How I had loved it when he made love to me! When he laced me up, till I was hardly able to breathe and then took me fiercely, mostly from behind. – And how I loathed it, when he thought, he possessed me! I was nobodies possession, and so I left him, together with some of his valuables. One of them, the most precious one, a treasured heirloom. I needed the money. I have to admit, I had gotten used to spending large sums faster than I had anticipated and there I was, a thief myself now. A blackmailer, a murderess, and a lewd woman. The worst of the worst, society would say. And still, I was free and I loved it.

And so, I finally came to Italy. Realising, that I had to lie low for a while, I changed my name once more and became Lady Emily Browning. Once in my life, I wanted to be a lady. My conduct was impeccable, I have to say. So much so, that I was charged with looking after a young and innocent girl. Oh, what secrets of lovemaking I could have told her and how her future husband would have appreciated my advice. But no, she was too young, too innocent to know about men. About the pleasure and the pain they can bring.

I went out with her on Monday, and who did I see – HIM! He had found me, after all. How I do not know, but he saw me and I knew, I soon would breathe my last. I was unable to return his treasures and I knew just how possessive he was with everything he deemed was his.

I have prepared already anyway. Only a few weeks ago, I had visited a doctor and learned, that my life was coming to an end. I was suffering from a fast growing tumour and was told that a slow and painful end awaited me. An end I dreaded very much.

Anyone who would save me from this inevitable and horrible fate would now be my hero. And I leave it at that. No name will be given. This man has done me a great favour and I will repay him by taking his name with me to my grave.

Now I am only left with the task of keeping my young charge safe. And by God, I will! This once I will do what is right. Little Mary deserves as much. Currently, she is looking forward to meeting her older brother. I wonder if he is as charming as her. But I will probably never find out.

So please don't fret over my death, it was all my will and mine alone.

Yours truthfully

Ann Nash (the only person I have always truly been)

P.S. Sometimes heat is all the top sheet needs…

I was shaken. I had, of course, heard about the robbery and that the money had never been recovered. The bank had lost its reputation in the process and had to close down in the late seventies. As appalling as her behaviour might have been, her life had been tragic nevertheless and I was glad that I did not need to judge her actions in any way. Ann Nash was before a greater judge now, than this earth could provide. And a fairer one.

I walked back into the main room, and out of the suite in search of the detective and the coroner, the book tucked under my arm.

"What is that?" the doctor asked, as soon as he saw me.

"Ann Nash's diary," I answered.

"Who is Ann Nash?" the policeman wondered.

"Read it!" I handed him the book and sat down, lighting a cigarette.

With the note in the diary, the murder of Miss Nash, alias Lady Browning was basically solved. I knew, that the only remaining member of the group around Smith who was capable of following her, would have been Nate O'Reilley. He had also been the youngest member of the lot – only sixteen when he was convicted. Now he was dead as well, buried God-knows-where. So the Spaniard must have been the murderer, whoever he was. I would have liked to take the ladies advice and not further pursue the lead, but even though Ann Nash might have welcomed his deed, what, if he fared like this with other, innocent girls? What if he held Mary Bertram hostage? To find her, was now my main focus. If I came across the man in consequence as well, then be it, he was of secondary interest to me. My primary one was to find Mary Bertram. In the chaos of the moment, she had almost been forgotten by everyone. But she was a fifteen-year-old girl, and she was missing. Missing, after the woman who was charged to look after her had been murdered. Where did she go? Had she been abducted? Murdered also? Or was she on the run, hiding somewhere to be found by her brother?

I ordered a glass of brandy and gulped it down in one, then got up again, to check on the young and desperate man I had pledged to help. He was awake but very sleepy, sitting up in his bed. By his side, to my amazement, I found the lovely Lucia. She blushed when I entered.

"I thought, he might need someone to look after him," she explained.

"And you?" I enquired.

"I am all right." I could see she was lying but left it at that. She looked ready to burst out into tears.

"Will you wait outside, please? I just have to tell your charge something."

Both looked at me wide-eyed and scared, but after only a short moment of hesitation, Lucia got up and left the room, closing the door behind her. I could hear her footsteps walking down the corridor, but no further.

"My sister...?" Bertram asked, his voice shaky.

"We still have no idea, where your sister is. Is that her?" I pointed at a family picture, which stood on his bedside table. He nodded. I took the photograph and took a closer look at the family.

They appeared rather austere, apart from the young girl – Mary. She looked perfectly happy and was smiling brightly. She was a pretty girl, not much shorter than her brother, lean and willowy, only beginning to turn into a woman. Her hair was tied back, but not braided and fell down without the slightest trace of a curl.

"It was taken two years ago. We all have a copy and take it, wherever we go." I was told.

I placed the photograph back on his nightstand.

"Is there any hope, she is still alive, Mr Sigerson?" Henry Bertram suddenly asked suppressing a sob.

"Yes, there is still hope." I replied calmly.

"Why was I unable to find her? I looked everywhere and you got so much further in a few hours than I did in a few days. And now I lie here when I should be out there again to search for her." he attempted to get up.

"No, Master Henry, you will stay in bed and sleep. You will need the rest and also you won't help your sister in the slightest if you knock yourself out now. I'll be back tomorrow morning at seven sharp and I expect you to be wide awake by then and ready for a long day of work. So, back to bed!"

I must have sounded like a stern father, but there really was no use in him walking up and down his room, all the while thinking about his sister, but not being able to channel his thoughts to come up with something productive.

I made sure, he was following my advice and then left.

As I had expected the young receptionist was awaiting me at the stairs. Lucia now looked tired and worn. Her cheeks appeared hollow and had lost their bloom, her eyes were red-rimmed and devoid of their previous sparkle. To my surprise, she threw her arms around my neck and began crying like a little child. I could do nothing but comfort her, something I had never been very good at. But it took only a few minutes and she had calmed herself down, taking a step back from me, she looked at me defiantly before she claimed my mouth and kissed me deeply. I was too perplexed to react immediately, and before I knew it, I kissed her back with a vengeance, claiming her mouth as if my life depended on it. For a moment willing to throw all of my morals overboard for one night of unbridled passion and only slowly my senses returned and panting I broke the kiss.

"Sorry," she said, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. "But it was a bit of a trying day."

"And there I was under the impression, Italian people liked to overstate things, instead of understating them..." I muttered, slightly embarrassed at our inappropriately intimate behaviour.

After all, I was a complete stranger to her, whom she had only met a few hours before.

"I am the one who should be sorry, Miss Lucia."

"No. Please don't be. I liked it." was her reply. And then: "Is there any way I can help?"

"Perhaps, but I need to think about it and if there is, I will let you know. Go to bed and sleep. That is what I told Henry Bertram to do as well. It is all we can do at the moment. It is late and we will not get anywhere today."

"Do you think he will be able to sleep?"

"Yes. Good night."

"And will you be able to sleep?"

"I will sure find out, Miss Lucia."

"Goodnight Mr Sigerson. Sweet dreams." she retorted, biting her lip and I was very much tempted to claim her mouth again.

It seemed my current loneliness was making me more receptive to my baser needs and kissing her had been so very sweet.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

I returned to my hotel and went straight to my room, first taking a cool and refreshing bath to wash off the foul odours of the day and cool my prurience. What I needed afterwards, was a pipe, an ounce of tobacco and my brain - the one in my head, preferably. I rang the bell to order a pot of tea and the necessary tobacco, opened the window and let in the cooling night air. While I put on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers, the tea was brought and laid out on the small coffee table next to my armchair.

"Anything else, Sir?" the valet asked.

I declined and tipped him. Making myself comfortable in my armchair, I first lit my pipe and began thinking the whole case over. There was not much I had to go on. The room was devoid of any trace. It had been cleaned twice since the incident and what was there, needed to be examined carefully. Was it left by the ladies? Or was it simply put there by the maids?

But what did I have? There was, of course, the body. Lady Emily Browning or rather Ann Nash had been strangled by her lover. Or so it appeared, when what was written in the diary was true. But why should it not be true? What reason did she have to write this note and hide it in a fashion, where it was only to be found by coincidence? No, for the moment I took her word on that for granted.

But what happened to the girl. She had been intimidated by a man the very same afternoon. It was likely, that she had told her companion of the incident. So what would the woman do? She knew that for her, there was no escape in the end, but did she take care, that the girl was out of harm's way? Probably. Likely even.

So how was the girl brought out of the hotel with all her luggage and without being seen? This answer was quite as easy to answer - they had used the back stairs in the middle of the night. I wondered how many suitcases Mary Bertram had with her and if two ladies could have managed them on their own. Was it possible they had help? And if so, who was this mysterious third party?

I remembered the wrinkled sheet of paper and fetched it from my pocket. I examined it thoroughly with my magnifying glass, but nothing. Only the hint of some dried liquid, almost indistinguishable was seen. I propped it up against the steaming hot pot of tea. Perhaps the solution would come later.

I stuffed another pipe and slouched back down into my chair. I was tired, lonely and admittedly in need of some form of relieving myself. My mind wandered to the times when I had found it in the use of drugs. But there now was a path I did not ever want to venture down again. As my mind began wandering down another dangerous road I almost gave in to the temptation. But it would not do. I would not stoop so low, I would not betray my morals - I could not. Not now anyway, when I should be solving a case.

So, back to the problem at hand! Where was the girl? What would I do, if I were in Ann Nash's position? Would I endanger an innocent girl of fifteen? - No! No matter how immoral I imagined myself to be, I would never endanger a mere child. I would try and get her out of harm's way. But would Ann Nash? Yes, she would. Her letter showed she was planning on bringing the girl into safety. But why did she not say how and where was this safe place?

To the first point, there might be of course various reasons. Perhaps she was not too sure if the diary was hidden well enough. But it had almost fooled me and I am an extremely observant man. Then again, if the maid had opened the window, she would have found the volume anyway. It would have simply fallen down. So, that it had been hidden for so long was nothing but a coincide. But where would be an even safer place to hide something? The answer was usually: In plain sight!

But there had been nothing in the whole room, that could contain any information – or was there? The clock on the mantelpiece? It had stopped at 3:40, could it be a code? Was it even stopped on purpose? I needed to see to it first thing in the morning. But was there something else? The books, perhaps? They were cheap and questionable novels. Not likely that they contained a deeper meaning. I had flipped through them and had found nothing. Not even a dog ear, to mark a page, only a small ribbon at the last page of one of the books, that had obviously been used as a bookmark.

I poured myself a cup of tea, putting aside the paper, I had placed against the pot. Annoyed I saw, that the heat had produced a dark spot, where it had touched the hot surface. And then I saw it – it was not a simple heat stain, it was a written message. Written with disappearing ink – lemon juice in all likeliness. I carefully held it over a candle and at last, I could read the whole message:

Look for Martin at Santo Michele.

So, who was Martin and where what or who was Santo Michele? When I had first arrived in Florence, I had bought a Baedecker guide to help me around. I now consulted it. There were five places, that went under Santo Michele. Two churches, one convent, a school and a road. That was something, to begin with. But not right now and so I decided, that even I could perhaps do with some sleep and so, I went to bed - alone but full of thoughts of Lucia's lovely lips on mine.


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

The morning was bright and the sunlight flooded my room with all its golden beauty. I got up and dressed quickly, taking a cup of coffee at one of the many corner shops that cater to the workers and early risers. At five to seven, I arrived at the Visconti and was immediately led up to Henry Bertram's room by the page and part of me was relieved it had not been Lucia to do so, lest I would get distracted again. Young Bertram was also ready to go and was just gulping down the rest of his coffee. This morning he looked less like the youth he was and more like the man he would soon become as in his haste he had forgotten to shave and the stubble on his chin afforded him a decided masculinity that was beyond his years. Well, I beard can make all the difference I suppose…

"You kept your word!" he greeted me.

"Was there any reason you had to doubt it?" I asked him, taking off my glasses to clean them.

"Only that I have basically forced you into this, while hardly knowing you. And still, I am glad you are here, I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate your involvement. I would not know, what to do. I always loved reading detective stories, but I had never thought to be involved in so fantastic a mystery that the likes of Dr Watson write about. Lucia was so kind as to bring me up the old Strand-Magazine from the library." he held up the issue in question, grinning ruefully. "I thought I might find inspiration there. - Which of course I did not."

I flinched at his words. Watson…. Good old Watson!

"Well, I have heard of him, but I never felt compelled to read his works." I lied blatantly.

Of course, I had read every one of his stories, as silly as this notion might be considering I had been there in the first place.

"Really? I think you are the first person, who has not read about his adventures with Sherlock Holmes!" Henry Bertram cried out, an incredulous expression on his freckled face.

"Perhaps. But I have heard of them." I answered more coolly than I had intended. But his words hurt, literally.

"So, where do we start? - Sherlock Holmes would presumably be exactly the man we would want right now. If we don't get anywhere, do you think he might be able to help us?"

"He died two months ago," I whispered, not trusting my own voice too much to speak the words aloud.

The young man stopped in his tracks. "Oh!"

"At least you seem to be in fairly good spirits this morning," I remarked desperately trying to change the subject and lift my spirits.

"I am. I had about six Espresso, I am ready to jump out of my skin."

"Stupid boy!" I reprimanded him, really quite angry about his stupidity. "I need you with a working head on your shoulders, not high on caffeine."

He looked ashamed, and I had to refrain from bursting out laughing at his contrite expression, reminding me strongly of an old school friend I had in the days of old when one's greatest worry is a scolding parent - or in my case, uncle, or so I had always assumed – but that was another matter altogether.

"Oh come on, I do have a lead. Let's follow it."

"You do?!" he cried. "What is it?"

I showed him the paper.

"Who is Martin?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Does it matter? As long as he can help us find your sister, who cares who Martin is?"

"And where is that Santo Michele?"

"According to my Baedecker, there are five places named thus. The closest is a church, about a ten-minute walk from here. We'll go there first for obvious reasons."

We walked in silence. The anticipation was palpable. We arrived at our destination, only to find, that it was being renovated and closed up. It was a pretty little church tucked away from the usual routes tourists would take. Surrounded by a little piazza, it was as unassuming as hardly any other church in Florence. It was not a wealthy neighbourhood, but the houses were well kept, with flowers blooming in the window boxes, giving life and colour to the surroundings. So, was there a priest living nearby? Of course, there was. Right opposite the entrance portal of the small ecclesiastic building we found him sitting at his front door, enjoying a cigarette and coffee, a tabby cat at his side. He was a young man with a handsome cheerful face and a thoroughly content expression. I could easily imagine many young girls walking to church eagerly, just so they could see him preach from the pulpit.

"Bongiorno! Are you Martin?" I asked him flat out.

The man looked at me puzzled, then seemed to understand, what I wanted.

"Martin? No, mi chiamo Luka, Luka Rossario. Lei cercare Martin?"

"Si!"

"Io nessuno conoscere Martin. Scusi!" the priest told us apologetically.

"Nessun problema. Belle grazie." I replied, turning around to leave.

It was Bertram, who held me back.

"How do you know, he is telling the truth? He might be lying and know a Martin, after all."

"I don't, but unless we have looked at the other places, there is no reason, to knock ourselves out here. At the moment I don't see a reason, why he would lie to us."

One last glance at the priest showed, that he had not stirred an inch but was now petting his cat, looking at us thoughtfully, but not in the slightest alarmed.

And so the morning commenced, till we finally got to the last place my Baedecker had to offer and the furthest from the city.

By midday, Henry Bertram was a nervous wreck. The coffee had done its work just as I had feared. He was now shaking and so wound up, that he began to be querulous and whining all the while we were working ourselves towards the outskirts of Florence. I had tried to make him eat something, but he was too wound up for that already and unable to keep down what he had just swallowed. It was a pathetic sight, but then again, we have all been young once and had made if not the same, then at least fairly similar mistakes. And honestly, some of mine had been more stupid by far.

Our last destination lay about five miles out of town and was only accessible on foot. The small enclave was famous for its vineyard and the footpath was well worn. The sun was burning down on us and I was glad that I had the foresight putting on my broad-rimmed hat, to save me from a potential sunstroke. But my companion did not have that much sense and I could see, that the young man desperately needed some rest.

"There is a bench there. I recommend you sit down and follow me as soon as you feel up to it." I suggested pointing at a comfortable looking bench which was in the shadow, sheltered by an old olive tree and afforded a most wonderful view of the Arno valley and of Florence.

The sunlight danced on the waters of the river and glistened on the red dome of the Santa Maria del Fiore and its white marble façade. It could have been a very enjoyable day, had it not been for the mystery we were trying to solve.

"But my sister?" he asked feebly, slouching down on his seat, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

"You will not help her in any way, by prolonging our search due to a collapse. Sit down here and I will head on. When you feel strong enough again, you follow – unless I come back down again first, that is."

"I must seem like such a dunderhead!" he complained in self-pity.

I handed him a bottle of water, one of a couple we had bought at a little corner shop before we had started on our hike. He almost emptied it in one.

"No, not a dunderhead, only like a young man, with not enough sense in him yet, to know that six Espresso within fifteen minutes and before something decent to eat are bound to give you a nervous breakdown and circulatory collapse," I remarked dryly, slapping his back jovially.

Sometimes it was best to see the funny side of things. My mind strayed towards my father, who with Mycroft and me under his care had been a real master at this exercise. Oh well, now I had conjured up yet another ghost from the past to haunt me in my many lonely hours.

Henry Bertram did not respond to that, but placed the cool bottle against his forehead, while his other hand covered his eyes and he began sobbing.

"There, there! There is still hope." I tried to comfort him, hoping he would not venture to kiss me, too, as I doubted I would take it as willingly as I had done with the pretty Italian Madonna.

"I know. I am just so worn out. I always thought I was old enough to deal, with whatever was thrown my way – and I am not. I want to study medicine, you know, and I was not even able to stand the sight and smell of a dead body."

"I threw up the first time I saw a dead body."

"You did?" he looked up, the bottle still pressed to his head.

"Yes."

What I did not tell him was, that the body had been in a similar condition than the one we had found yesterday and that just as we wanted to examine it, the abdomen had ruptured through the accumulation of gases in the abdominal cavity with such force, that even the doctor performing the autopsy was shaken by it and joined the ranks of his students, losing their stomach contents. We had all been covered in foul and putrid flesh and since we had been told to mainly breathe through the mouth, so the smell would not bother us so much, some of the debris ultimately had ended up in our mouths. Many a fellow student changed his mind afterwards and studied something else and I was not able to eat meat for a while without feeling queasy.

The boy was now relatively calm again and I left him there in the shadow of the old tree.

It took me another forty minutes to get to my destination, all the while climbing uphill on the slippery surface of the worn path. The heat had gotten quite intense as I neared the summit and the light wind, which had made the walk more bearable earlier on, had stopped. The air was getting more and heavier and in the far distance, I thought I could hear the faint rumble of thunder. I hoped Bertram would be all right and already catching up with me.

At last, I could see the small convent surrounded by cypress trees, sitting just underneath the summit of the hill. It was nothing more really than a couple of farm buildings, most humble living quarters and a small chapel, with its door wide ajar. I had read, that it had developed out of a medieval hermitage and to this day, it was hardly more than that.

I crossed the cobbled yard towards the chapel in the hope of finding someone there who might be able to help me. And as luck would have it, I was successful. There was an old monk kneeling in front of the altar, praying. He looked as if he had been there since the founding of the place. His face was wrinkled and as brown as a nut from all the work he had done outside and in the burning sun during his lifetime. But age had not made him mellow and so, with sharp eyes he looked up as he heard my footsteps, eyeing me carefully before greeting me.

"I am sorry, but..." I began.

"No, you are not!" he interrupted me, with a broad Irish accent, which took me by surprise. "You only attempt to be polite."

"Yes, you are right."

"And again…"

"If you don't want to help me, then tell me so, but I am looking for Martin."

"For Martin?" he eyed me even more carefully than before.

"Who are you?" he demanded to know.

"My name is Hendrik Sigerson, I am accompanying a young man named Henry Bertram who is looking for his sister Mary, and we were told, that we should look for Martin at Santo Michele. This is Santo Michele, so where will I find Martin?"

He seemed to think about an appropriate answer, but just as he began to open his mouth to give me one, his eyes fixed on something or someone behind me and he closed his lips again. I wheeled around to see what had deterred him and could only just make out a young monk who was scurrying across the courtyard and then disappeared into one of the stable buildings.

"Was that him?" I asked, already guessing the answer and still wanting a confirmation. "Quick man! The young girl's brother is worrying himself sick. He does not know, whether his sister is alive or not. – Her companion has been found yesterday. Dead! Tell me, I beg you."

The man seemed to come to a conclusion, but just as he had wanted to give me an answer, Henry Bertram arrived. He was pale and sweaty and breathing heavily dragging himself into the shadowy cold of the church.

"There is a storm coming." he greeted me. "I thought it best not to rest for too long. - Oh, bongiorno!" he greeted the monk.

"Good afternoon. So you are Henry Bertram?" the old man inquired. But before my charge could answer, there was a commotion outside.

The young monk I had seen hurrying across the courtyard, was now sitting on a small horse, pressing his heels into its sides, driving it into the vineyard and beyond.

"What is that boy doing?" Henry asked bewildered and just at this very moment, the hood, which had covered the young novices head, slipped down and revealed a shock of red hair, gleaming in the sunlight. I dashed outside.

"Martin! Wait!" I shouted. But it was too late, the youth had hurried off with neck breaking speed.

"Have you another horse?"

"Yes, there are a few pack horses in the stables. Get yourself one and get that boy out of trouble."

I ran and within minutes had bridled one of them and was after the refugee leaving young Bertram behind once more and in the care of the ancient Irish monk.

I spurred my horse as much as was possible, but it was obviously not bred to be a nimble runner. My target was already out of my sight as the area was uneven, and one could easily hide from view just by taking one of the many hollowed out paths which riddled the vineyard. But I could make out the recent tracks, that had been made by the pair in front of me and as I had reached the summit, I could now see what was lying beneath me. There, in the fading light of the sun, the shock of red hair gleamed from between the vines. They were still moving, but they had slowed down, unaware, that I was right behind them. I was about to catch up with them when the young man spotted me and headed off in a panic again.

"Martin! Wait!" I called out and then realization hit me.

How could I have been so blind? How common were redheaded people? In England perhaps fairly common. But in Italy?

"Mary! Stop! Your brother is here. You are safe!"

She did not stop, however, but edged her horse on and on, presumably not paying much attention to what I had shouted towards her. Her animal stumbled across the stony ground losing its footing every once in a while, while the rider was oblivious to the fact that she was running from safety not towards it. Only a moment later, I could hear her horse neighing frantically and saw it rearing up. Its rider lost her balance and fell off. Then there was silence. Just as I had feared the worst, I could hear a piercing scream, panic-stricken and desperate.

"Help!" the young girl cried. I was confused. What had gotten into horse and rider? The horse was prancing around in desperation, and I almost feared it would trample the girl, who was not even frightened any-more as I came closer and closer. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon something that was right in front of her and which seemed to almost hypnotise her. I, at last, reached her and jumped off the old mare I had to make do with.

"Help, please!" she cried, looking at me with a desperate face and tearful eyes. "I don't want to die."

And then I saw, what had scared her so much. There, slowly and indolent a snake was slithering across the path, it too looked nervous and was hissing defiantly.

"Listen, keep calm, I will help you get up, very slowly, and then I will put you onto my horse and will bring you back up the hill, it looks as if you have some explaining to do to your brothers. - And your brother." I took out my handkerchief and put it over my horse's eyes, so it would not start to panic as well, then put my hands under her armpits and pulled her to her feet. She was wincing and it was clear, that she had hurt herself in the fall.

"Hold on to the reins," I ordered, before lifting her up and putting her over the back of the horse like a sack of barley. She pulled herself into a sitting position and for a moment I feared, she would escape me again. But I was quick enough to get hold of the bridle and stop her before the thought even manifested in her mind.

"What's with my horse?" she asked. It was still dancing around nervously but had not run off.

"I'll get it. You stay here, Mary, and wait for me. Your brother Henry is worried sick about you."

Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in astonishment. But she did not say a word, only waited till I had calmed the animal and was safely sitting on its back.

All the while, we had completely neglected to keep an eye on the weather and now the storm was worryingly close.

"I don't like thunder." my young charge told me and it struck me how young a girl she still was.

"It's the lightning you have to worry about," I replied, as we rode uphill.

I prayed we would make it on time. Where we were now, we were terribly exposed. Not a good thing when caught in a storm at all.

And then the rain began to pour down. It was as if someone had opened the floodgates. The wind was gaining momentum the closer we came to the summit. But going around the hilltop was not a wise idea either, it was too far, and almost as open.

"Is there a shelter somewhere?" I shouted as nature had gotten louder and angrier.

As the raindrops blurred my vision through the glasses I took them off, pocketing them safely.

"There is a small cabin somewhere. But I don't know where we are exactly. Perhaps, we could hide under those trees." she pointed at the group of cypress trees.

"No, we cannot. They are too far away and also too high. They are not safe. We better get off the horses and walk."

"But my leg!" she protested.

In the heat of the moment, I had almost forgotten she was injured.

"Then lie flat on the horse and I'll guide you. Don't sit up straight, do you hear me?"

As an answer, she bent forward and did as I had told her.

Weighing my possibilities against one another I found I had no choice, but to take the longer route around the hilltop which took us almost two hours, till we reached the small monastery. We were soaking wet and shivering from the light night breeze. But we had made it. In the valley at the foot of the mountain, the lights of Florence glistened and reflected in the river, but none of the city's bustle reached up here. Here it was calm and serene and pitch dark, the stars twinkling with unfamiliar brilliance.

"Bertram!" I cried out and almost instantly I could hear someone crossing the pavement of the yard, a dark shadowy figure coming towards us.

"Mr Sigerson?" the figure enquired reluctantly, the voice full of unasked questions.

"Henry?" the sleepy voice of the girl chimed in, she had succumbed to sleep as we had neared our destination, too tired to keep her eyes open any longer.

"Mary!" my young friend shouted with a joy that made me forget all the strain of the past few days. Henry Bertram pulled his sister off the horse rather ruggedly, embracing her, so hard, I could hear her gasp.

"Oh Mary, where have you been? Whatever has happened to you?"


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

As we sat down in the small stone-floored kitchen of the hermitage, sipping some wine, Mary Bertram began her tale:

"Well, Josephine had gotten ill and needed to be taken back to England. But I gather you know about that already. Anyway, Miss Jackson had made the acquaintance of Lady Browning and thought that after we had discussed what was to be done with me, I might stay with her till you would arrive. Lady Browning was very friendly, but two days after the others had left, something had happened. She had gone out and when she returned her attitude had changed completely. She was scared and testy and she seemed to regret to have taken me into her care. But eventually, she told me, that her abusive husband has found her and that we might need to flee, in case he would be threatening us.

Sometime later, I went out to post a letter she had written to a Mr P. O'Shea who lived somewhere around here. Afterwards, I ran a couple of other errands and I was quite surprised how well I got on on my own. - Lady Emily had asked for some lemons and some clothing I was to pick up, oh and a new nib for her pen, and then I returned to the hotel. It was on the road leading to the Visconti when I saw a man whom I was sure was following me. He wore a broad-rimmed hat and had a dark beard. Anyway, I tried to calm myself down, by convincing myself, he might just coincidentally take the same path – or perhaps even stay in the same hotel as us, but when I was about to walk in I heard him speak and what he said, was very frightening:

'You can tell her, that I will have her either dead or alive!'

I dashed upstairs and told Lady Emily and she reacted instantly.

'Listen,' she said, 'I will hide you at Santo Michele on the hills out of town – here is how you get there.' She handed me a piece of paper with the directions on it. 'You will stay there, till you are picked up by your brother. I'll make sure a note is left for him. I know the priest there. He used to be my confessor when I was a child, but he got ill and was sent to Italy – and there he still is. Father Patrick is his name. I have informed him already. Your suitcases will be picked up and brought to you soon enough.'

She also told me, that I'd better cut off my hair and turn into a boy for the time being. And so I assumed the name Martin and off I went. Father Patrick took me in as a novice. I did not confide in him, that I was a girl because I was not sure if I would be allowed to stay, if I were. And so I stayed here, helping out in the stables and in the kitchen."

"When you turned up," she was looking at me fully now, " I first thought you were that man, who was supposed to be after me. But you are nice, and a lot taller than him."

She looked around.

"So where is Lady Browning?" she carried on.

No-one volunteered an answer, but our silence was as eloquent as any word could have been. A single tear made her way down her cheek.

"Her husband will not be able to hurt her any-more, now, I suppose," she stated with a shaky voice, crossing herself.

No-one bothered to correct her. Some things are better left untold especially when regarding a young girl.

"Yes, that woman has always been exceptional." the old brother said quietly, with a hint of good humour in his voice. "And of course I knew you were a girl, Mary. Remember the letter you have posted? I am none other than Patrick O'Shea, and in case you are wondering, your suitcases are stacked neatly in the storeroom. At any rate, I think, you young folk should go to bed, it is well past your time and you had an adventurous day."

While brother and sister went to sleep without delay, I stayed behind. I was tired and worn, but my mind was not at rest.

"Brother Patrick, will you hear my confession?" I asked.

And he agreed. It was a long confession and it did take some of what was weighing me down away. The cleric did not look at me any different than he had done before, and for a brief moment, I felt not quite so alone, not quite so lost.


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

The next day, I walked back to Florence, before the young people had gotten up. I informed the police that the girl had been found and was in return rewarded with the information that a letter had been found on the body of the deceased woman, sealed, and not yet sent. It had been unreadable, but I was certain, that it had been a message to Henry Bertram, to inform him of his sister's whereabouts. She obviously had not had the chance to do so any-more. Instead, she had made sure, to at least leave a second secret message, and now even the mysterious post scrip made sense. I had thought it to be a rude comment on her lifestyle, but now I could see her last written words in a completely different light.

Rest in peace, Annie Nash.

Her murderer was never found, exactly as she had wished it.

What became of the Bertram's, or Lucia I do not know and I leave it at that. My part was over and I needed to move on. There might be a time when we might meet again, but for now, I must stay alone, a stranger amongst people.

A week later, I boarded a ship at Venice which is exactly where I am right at this very moment, finishing this tale to have something I might be able to leave to those left behind should I never be able to return home, should I die on this journey I had begun not quite voluntarily.


End file.
